by Wendy Beach
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BRUSHSTROKES
Shortlisted 2014 Tod Hunter Literary Award
This is a work of Literary Fiction using a 'Realism' technique.
The characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author's imagination.
Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events is entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9781310961021. Copyright 2014 Wendy Beach. All Rights Reserved.
Please Note: I am a non-indigenous writer.
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IN DEDICATION
To my father,
Vietnam Veteran,
Western Australian Anthropologist and Ethnographic Film Maker,
Donald V. Sauman
(1946-2006)
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A Brief Glossary
Boodja: Noongar word for land, also interchangeable with mother.
Coolamon: A curved wooden basket made from a thick sheet of bark.
BRUSHSTROKES
Kaya, Noongar boodja, yorga boodja, warlitje, warlitje, Kaya, kaya.
Blessings, Men on the land, women on the land, see how the wedge-tail eagle flies.
(Fear not, dream big)
Half my art class is white people. I watch'em paint flying cows, spaceships and aliens. We call those ones warra-wirrin, bad spirits. I tell'em, ‘I won’t look at bad spirits.’ But, they ain't scared and I guess I ain't neva seen bad things happening to'em white folks. I don’t reckon they’d get six funerals in a week. I've been upset, not that I’d tell'em, that’s my business. But today, I don’t wanna see white people paintings. So, I pour all the white paint down the sink.
I'm washing it away when Violet arrives. She’s my cousin's daughter from'em lot down south, she don’t try to act like she knows more than me, this is my people's area. I’d kick her out if she did. Next, Green-eyes walks in. He's new. I give him a grilling. Turns out he's Koori, from a mob over east. This is Noongar boodja, not his. He's gunna get himself inta big trouble if he don’t get permission to be here. After him, the two blondes show up. One, she’s painting'em pink elephants with glitter-paint from her place. She don’t notice the missing paint. The other, she can paint good, but what’s with all'em snow-scenes?
‘Where’s the white paint?’ she asks me, as she puts on an apron.
‘Aw, we musta run out,’ I tell her, looking over at the bottles of paints, rollers and brushes on the table. ‘I’ll put that on my list.’
‘But how can I paint without white?’ she asks, then whispers over to the other straw-head, ‘I don’t know how to paint without white.’
I wanna be harsh on her, to take it personal. But I can’t, 'cause she really don’t know anything ’cept a white world. I go outside. The warmth of the sun washes over me. Its heat feels good. My eyes open and I notice a canvas. Violet has rolled a mission-brown base coat and set it out to dry. I take it into the air-conditioned room, holding it up to get the blondie's attention.
‘Use brown,’ I tell her, ‘brown’s a good colour.’
Her eyebrows go up, and she says, ‘Oh, I like that! That’s so modern.’
Modernity! I wanna smack the canvas over her head. I give it to Violet. She’s gunna paint a stream with a platypus, traditional style, not modern. Green-eyes is thumbing his iPhone. I tell him to go get a canvas. The snow-scene blonde takes him into the storeroom and gets him set up to paint.
I sit between Amber, she's slow, and her mother to help'em do paintings they’ll sell on the roadside. Not good art, but cheap aboriginal art, and people buy'em. I reckon it’s in sympathy for her condition, or our condition. I start thinking ’bout'em funerals again. I could tell the class I won’t be coming in on Friday. I’ll be burying my niece, her man, and their girls. But nah. I’ll skip the class.
****
The river's real low. The sand that use-ta be underwater is now a lotta shallow islands where big, white hooked-beaks hunt'em marooned minnows. There ain't been no rain here since early-spring, don't look like there'll be any this coming winter either. This arvo, I've been walking about the car park and playground gathering feathers and seedpods in'em yellow doggy bags. I forgot-ta bring a plastic bag. When I get home, I'm gunna add'em to my mother's coolamon to show in class.
Sometimes I think about all my ancestors that once lived along this river. I imagine my mob would of hunted roos and speared fish here. I can almost smell the tucker on the campfires. Back then, the She-oaks might have been everywhere the lawn is now, not thinned to the road. But I guess the wetland birds don’t seem-ta mind the swamp the Council sprinklers have made where trees use-ta be. The soggy lawn leads to the footpath that snakes along the river-bank. It's the path of joggers, cyclists and'em that walk their dogs. To me, it's a place of erosion, where the things that use-ta be is replaced by the waves of weekend motor-boats, but it's still my mob's boodja.
Today the river's too low and murky for boats. The water's still too. I reckon that means Waagyl's resting here. He's a nervy spirit that don't like jokes. If ya bother him he won't take it light. I don't like jokes either, so I can see what he's getting at. I talk soft and tell Waagyl I'm here. I don’t wanna scare him. I take sand from the river's edge, it's fine and dry, half of it siphons outta my fingers. I lift my hand and scatter what's left over the water. The surface ripples, Waagyl's moving away. Hope he finds a deep spot to rest in. Now I can sketch this place.
Upriver, there is two lovers holding hands. I draw a semi-circle and a line in my art-pad, that's a man and his spear, and a semi-circle with a oval, that's how we draw a woman and her coolamon. Where'em lovers is standing the earth is brown. They kiss and look over the river at some kids playing.
Three boys is swinging 'emselves into the river from a rope hung from a big eucalypt. Those boys is talking loud too. Good thing Waagyl's gone so they don't scare him. They see me watching, and all three wave, calling out to me, 'Hello.'
I wave back, then use my grey H3 pencil and draw the bends of the river. Over the water the trees is thicker on the slope. That patch can be done in dark green. The small hills further back is darker still. I can do that patch in black. I write down a word in each patch: dark green, light green, brown, and black. Next, I draw lines for the roads, those is landmarks too. Finally, I note track marks for birds, goannas and snakes. I hold the pad out and look at it.
My mob'll know where it is. I don't have to tell'em. They'll just look at it and say, 'I know that place. That's where'em wallabies use-ta go for water, long time ago'.
I look up. I can hear the kid's voices as they race barefoot along the river-edge, heading towards the bridge. I flip the pad shut and walk towards'em. They better not do bombies from there, that's deep water. I can hear a kookaburra laughing. I turn to a lone eucalyptus on the lawn, and see him sitting on a high branch.
He likes a good laugh that Kookaburra, but I ain't like him. My sister been hitting the grog since'em funerals, she says I'm a turtle, got a tough shell. But, I dunno how tough I'd be if my daughter and all my grandkids died.
'Youse boys,' I yell over at'em, 'don't go jumping on Waagyl's back.'
'Hello Aunty,' each of'em say as they run up.
'You lot should head home,' I tell'em, 'Noongar patrol'll be out soon.'
'Oh, they're okay Aunty,' one tells me, 'they have beds in the back of their vans.'
I don’t ask'em why they don’t want to head home. I know why. It's
pension day. I don't like other people's dramas either. I get that.
'You lot had something to eat?' I say, seeing their big brown eyes light-up.
'What have you got, Aunty?' one with a gold fringe asks.
I open my handbag and give'em my jellybeans. I'll be back at my place before my next sugar low. They is beaming with big, broad smiles as they take'em and run off to the playground. I like seeing'em kids happy. I look up the river-line to the lovers. They're coming closer. The last of the sunlight is bouncing off her long blonde hair. He's tall. I realise I know'em. I can't see his eyes yet, but I reckon they're green.
I want to pretend I don't see'em, but it's too late. I can hear that Kookaburra laughing. I shove the doggy bags into my handbag, and flip open my art pad. Might as well give'em a lesson in Indigenous storyboarding.
I hurry to put dots around the edges of the paper. That's our style, not dot paintings, dot paintings is from them lot up North. Hope they don’t ask where I was on Friday. That's my business.
'What a beautiful day,' Snow-scene says. She flops onto the grass, before I can stop her, then shoots back into a sitting position. Her face distorts. 'Oh, that's disgusting!'
I try not to laugh. Green-eyes don't try, he thinks it's hilarious, he's in a full, rolling, belly laugh. I reckon he's a Kookaburra. Snow-scene wipes the duck poo from her arm. It's wet. It smears.
'You look like you've been painting,' Green-eyes says.
She jumps up, kangaroo style, bounding after him with her duck-poo hand out, trying to get him. There's no way, his legs is too long for hers. He knows it too. He's laughing hard-out, he thinks she's wicked!
I look over at the boys, realising they is too quiet. At first I don’t see'em, but then I do. They’ve climbed up the poles holding the sunshade high over the playground, 'em kids is on top using the cloth as a trampoline. It's sagging a bit under their weight as they do back flips and summersaults across it.
One of'em waves at me, he's got a cheeky grin on his face. I don’t reckon he'd come down if I tell him, not that I'm gunna. A white guy is walking his dog on a footpath nearby. He sees'em, stops, pulls out his phone and makes a call. He's gunna ruin a good day.
I watch him continue along the path, unaware, or maybe he just don’t care. Green-eyes is behind Snow-scene with his arms around her, walking back from the river. I try not-ta roll my eyes, I guess she reckons brown's a pretty good colour after all.
'Do you see it?' she asks. I dunno what she's talking about. She sits on a dry spot near me. 'It's everywhere: in the trees, the river, even the sand.'
I'm a bit taken back. I didn’t think white-folk could see her. I don’t say nuthing yet. I wanna hear what else she's gotta say. Green-eyes sits down. I look at him. He should know who she's talking about.
'Chi energy,' she says, 'that’s what the Chinese call it, it runs through everything.'
'Can ya see it?' I ask her.
'Yes, it's beautiful,' she says, then raises her hand and shakes it, 'like, shimmery.'
'Not many people can see it,' I tell her. I wanna say 'your people' or 'white people' but don’t. I turn to Green-eyes, 'You know it?'
'I was adopted.'
I don’t have to tell him. He ain't my mob. I wonder where his mother is, she'd be my age, got issues I guess. I feel sorry for him. I ask him, 'But, do ya see it?'
'Yeah,' he says. I watch him draw his sunglasses down; that's shame. Snow-scene is laying back now, watching the clouds hanging in the sky.
'I didn't know others can't see it,' she says, then looks at me, 'I don’t tell anyone about it. I think they'd say I'm delusional and put me on meds.'
'Crazy white chick,' Green-eyes says, having a dig at her, but she don't take the bait.
'I think it's beautiful, like the whole world is alive.'
She looks back at the sky, and for a moment she looks like one of'em Ruben ladies. She's all curves, not skinny legged like me. I laugh at myself and follow her gaze. I reckon them clouds she's watching look like long white brushstrokes, and I guess I don’t mind white in small doses: foam on waves, streaks in the sky, dots on a painting's boarders; just not the whole picture.
Green-eyes stands up. He says to the boys to get down, but they're already springing over the cloth. There's a police car in the car park. They won't get'em boys, but they won't have to. They'll already know'em and pay'em a visit at their place.
It's time to go home. We get up. Snow-scene gets her sandals on. I pick up my art pad and bag. I tap Green-eyes on his forearm. He looks at me through his shades.
'It's ya mother,' I tell him. 'She's all our mothers mixed into one.'
He don't say nuthing, but I see his lip tremble as he turns away.
'Mine too?' Snow-scene asks.
'I dunno,' I say it straight. 'You tell me.'
****
'You're a terrible mother,' Rosie yells.
Rosie's my sister. She's going off. The glitter-blonde's at my kitchen table, crying. Rosie went at her with a knife a few hours ago. It's a big knife, the type you'd use to cut up a sheep. Rosie's been walking the street with it eva since. She keeps coming to the door, blaring, 'You should be ashamed of yourself. You bitch. You don’t look after your daughter. You don’t deserve her.'
'I'm not a bad mum,' the glitter-blonde splutters to me. Her face is red, but she ain't hurt, just scared.
'She ain't talking 'bout you,' I tell her. 'She's talking 'bout herself.'
'Ya left her there with'em lot, you didn’t give a shit,' Rosie says. 'You're the worst mum in the world...'
The glitter-blonde sniffs and phones a friend to pick her up. Least she ain't taking it too personal and calling the police. Her hands is shaking and she got tears down her face. Her daughter's hiding in a bedroom with my grand-daughter.
I've told'em kids not to let Rosie in. I got eleven of'em here. It's the middle of the night, Eddie's my fella. I say to him, 'I'm gunna go out there.' He won't let me go alone, so I tell'em kids to lock the door behind us.
Rosie sees us coming out and staggers toward the curb, tearing her hair out with the knife still in her hand. She's shouting to the moon, 'You stupid bitch…' The neighbours is out. A lotta my mob live on this street. They ain't saying nuthing. This ain't their business. I walk up slow.
'You lost her,' she shouts, stabbin' at the icy night air. 'Dumb bitch. You’re the worst mother eva.'
I wanna say something, but if I do I reckon my tears won't stop. Just like that drunk white-fella couldn't stop when he lost control of his truck and hit my niece's car. Eddie puts his arms around my shoulders. He don’t say nuthing, but he don’t let me go. Rosie turns and walks up the street, sobbing. The neighbours stand still and quiet in their yards, letting her pass.
A car swings inta the driveway. The glitter-blonde runs out with her daughter. They drive off fast. Police cars start coming around the corners. They'll close the street. One of our guys from down-the-end grabs the knife and sprints towards a back fence. He'll ditch it. Rosie starts shrieking, my bloods goes cold. I watch her fall to her knees on the road, bashing her head with her fists, 'You horrible mother…'
It's not fair. She needs-ta wail. Where's she suppose-ta put her grief? She goes kicking and fighting inta the back of a paddy-wagon.
****
I get to class late, and realise I forgot my mother's coolamon. They is set up to paint, but it's too quiet. I reckon they all know 'bout'em funerals now. I try-ta get to work, to keep my mind off it. I look at Amber, she's been using glitter paint on her goanna picture, and there's a bottle of white paint on the table too. No guessing who brought that in.
I look over at Snow-scene, she's painting next to Green-eyes. He got a black eye and a split lip. I'm not surprised, he's a black-fella, he can't just waltz into our boodja like he owns the place. He's got no respect. Don't he know?—
Oh whateva. I'll show him who to talk to after class. I'm tired, there's not much snap left in this old turtle. The glitter-blond
e looks at me, she asks me quiet if Rosie is okay. I tell'er, 'yeah.' I reckon we'll go bush when she gets outta lockup, find some boodja where it's okay to cry.
I'm still thinking 'bout Rosie when I drop the yellow doggy bags onta the table. They all look at me: some laughing, and some with their mouths wide, catching flies. I cop a bit-ta crap, but least it broke the silence.
Violet tells me her painting's done. She gets it from the storeroom and holds it up to show me. I shake my head. I should tell her off. It’s a brown based, white lined Starship Enterprise. What’s next? Flying emus? I take a deep breath, seeing that in my head. I laugh at it and pick up a brush. And ya know what? I paint'em flying emus, and ya wouldn’t think it, but it was deadly!
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Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, won’t you please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer? Thanks! Wendy Beach.
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RESPECT AND ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Elaine Collard, my art teacher and friend, for sharing your knowledge about Indigenous storyboarding/ traditional painting and 'bad spirits'.
Staff at the Jacaranda Community Centre, Belmont, for the cultural art trips.
Jesse John Fleay for his Noongar blessing and its translation for this story.
RESOURCES
Information about reconnecting to the earth mother from SW Noongar Eugene Eades' article in The Nature Conservancy (online magazine)
https://www.nature.org/ourinitiatives/regions/australia/explore/a-journey-of-hope-and-healing.xml
Noongar cultural and information about Waagyl from the South West Aboriginal Sea and Land Council website.
https://www.noongar.org.au/
Additional information about earth mother concept from Creative Spirits Website
https://www.creativespirits.info
Jaqueline Wright (Author of Red Dirt) from Magabala Books for copious amounts of helpful advice on Aboriginal Intellectual Rights.